


Fear, Permanence, & Open-Mouth Kisses

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Death, F/M, Little bit of teaser smut, You know all the usual stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 05:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9163525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: In some sick, twisted reasoning in her brain, Sansa chose this man who had already murdered far more than she could have ever imagined. Whether by using others, or on occasion with his own practiced fingers, so many people lay dead because of Petyr.And now another, by her own blood-soaked hands.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Writing prompt from unblockingwritersblock.tumblr.com:   
> _**It all started with a murder.**_
> 
> [A re-write of a drabble I wrote months back when I was trying to remember how to write lol. Enjoy! :D]

 

            It all started with a murder.

            At least, Sansa wanted to believe it did. There wouldn’t be a murder if everything hadn’t shattered months ago. If everything hadn’t crumbled in the span of those few seconds it took for her family to be executed. That who Sansa was now and what she did was because of it.

            And here she was now. A sweet revenge that tasted like ash in her mouth and set her stomach into a flurry. Her hands trembled with the weight of what she had done. The tremble an involuntary response grounding her in the present. Physical shaking that echoed that twisted voice in her head: _you wouldn’t dare, not after everything I’ve done for you_.

            Dare Sansa had. And now he was dead.

            _Oh gods, what have I done?_

            Her hands were shaking. They were cold: slivers of ice spreading from fingertips into her arms, up and up until they coiled around her heart. Coiled and coiled, tighter until she felt it explode.

            Did Sansa still have a heart? Was she still human? Was it possible to have a heart even if you’ve murdered someone – even if they begged you to _stop_ and you didn’t?

            The warm blood on her hands did nothing to alleviate the cold. At least, it had to have been warm. Hot, even. Only minutes had passed since the blood ran strong through veins. Since it ran through arms aiming to grab her. Since it ran through lips and tongue that screamed when the knife slid into flesh. It spilled freely out of the man lying on the floor, unmoving. Yes, it had to be hot. But Sansa couldn’t feel its heat, only its weight threatening to drag her down into the pool of crimson around her feet.

            The knife was there, too, lying on the floor beside him. Slipped from her fingers as she realized what she’d done. And like the body and like Sansa, it too was soaked red.

            It was everywhere, that damned color. Shocking, stark – so bright and demanding to be seen. Sansa couldn’t stop staring at it: where it coated the once-pristine tiles and walls. Sansa couldn’t stop feeling it: sticking and dripping from her fingers and face.

            Nothing moved in that room save her trembling hands. It was an endless tremor of terror and fear. And – somewhere, deep down where her heart might have been once – the tremor shook through her with _happiness_.

            He was gone. Dead.

            Never again would his disgusting sneers be aimed at her, always attempting to unnerve – attempts that always hit their mark, no matter how hard Sansa tried to hide it. Never again would those eyes sweep over her – across her face and down her neck and further down and down, sizing her up as nothing more than a thing to be had.

            Never again.

            Lifeless eyes that never truly smiled stared up at her with frozen fear. A gash on the side of his head sent crimson running across his lips and into his eyes. Sansa couldn’t help but imagine the body rising up and taking his revenge. In plucking the knife from the pool of his own blood, in lunging for her and letting her screams echo through the apartment and out through the city. Taking his time with her. Savoring her pain.

            She couldn’t will her legs to move. Couldn’t will her eyes to shut out that horrifying face filled with fear and hatred and utter contempt that he was dead and she wasn’t.

            She almost didn’t hear the soft scrape of the door opening and closing, or the light tap of shoes across the tiles towards her. But she did. And Sansa wondered what sort of death was in store for her now.

            What death does a person without a heart deserve?

            “Sansa.”

            It wasn’t a question. Not of _what_ she had done, or of _why_. It wasn’t even an attempt to console a frightened child. The voice was flat, its owner just out of her sight, observing the sort of mess she had made.

            But she still was a child, wasn’t she? Despite the metallic sting in the room or the crimson soaking deep into her skin or her heart replaced by a thing of ice – despite it all, here lay a body murdered by her own hands. _Brutally murdered_ , they would say in news programs. _What sort of monster would do this_ , they would ponder.

            Even with all of their carefully-constructed preparations. Even with all of her attempts to be an equal in this sick, twisted game the world played. All of it – none of that truly made her anything more than the frightened child she still was.

            Was it murder, then? Did murder turn a boy into a man, and a girl into a woman?

            Sansa continued to look at the body on the ground. _He_ paraded about with a puffed chest and loud voice. _He_ wanted the world to see him as a man. And Sansa, too, wanted to grow up out of the child the world saw her as. No matter what they did - he was still a boy, and she still a girl.

            Perhaps it wasn’t murder that transformed a person. But murder certainly altered the fragile heart of hers into something else. From smooth, delicate porcelain into rough and cold steel.

            “Sansa,” the voice repeated. A whisper, but it seemed to echo and shout in her head.

            Sansa willed her body to turn towards him, a slow turn. Her wide eyes looked for some sort of comfort in the hardened edges of his stare, or in the dark hue of his own eyes. Nothing of the man she truly knew could be gleaned from his blank face. Nothing of the roar of emotions running deep inside her were mimicked on him. Those emotions only lived far underneath the pair of shaking hands and the frozen heart. Far underneath all of the _blood_.

            Slowly, he approached, his careful steps made in shoes too large and bulky. He was framed in attire too out-of-place, and so had she. It had been _planned_ , yes. Everything was a plan. From the moment her family was gunned down in a public execution, everything was carefully construed for this moment. This man cultivated Sansa from the frightened girl into the woman capable of murdering in cold blood. A murder with all the details of the combed through until everything had a method and a countermeasure. All of it was planned for weeks. And look at the absolute mess Sansa had made of it.

            Sansa Stark the woman would have followed the plan and would not have frozen in fear.

            But she wasn’t here. Who stood as a mess of his blood and her blood and tears and sweat was Sansa Stark the child.

            The man knelt beside her, gloving his hands in disposable latex before carefully pulling the large knife from the bloodied pool surrounding her. Her shoes and clothes were as red as her hands; Sansa hadn’t even noticed them. The man gently held the edge of the knife’s handle, wiping the wood free of any sort of incriminating evidence – her fingerprints, her blood, her DNA. He moved and sheathed it halfway into the largest hole in the boy’s chest, spreading blood onto the handle with the back of a knuckle. It couldn’t be _too clean_ , of course.

            Sansa watched him repeat the motions with everything else in the room, even the dead body. Watched him set up the scene as it was originally had planned. Watched him clean up her mess.

            To the whole world, Sansa Stark was never here.

            And here was the difference between them: with all of the red and death and fear pumping in their veins, he kept logic closest to his heart. What had she done? Frozen up, freaked out. Had it instead been anyone else wandering into the apartment while she stood petrified, Sansa would be lying on the floor, too.

            “Oh, Sansa.” His words brought her out of her head. She looked away from the knife sticking out of the boy’s chest. She looked into his eyes – the darkness was still there, but she saw the faint glimmer of moss beneath the black. He brought a hand to cup her face, wiping away stray auburn hairs and flecks of blood. His hand was free of the bloody glove, and his skin felt both fiery and frozen on her cheek. But most of all, it was a comfort. “Oh, Sansa, what am I to do with you?”

            “Petyr, I’m–” _sorry_. The word caught in her throat. She was so _tired_ : of messing things up, of never being right. Of all of her failed attempts at being someone else, and constantly reverting back into the scared child she always was. Her vision blurred through tears. The shaking that had started in her hands consumed her body.

            “Sweetling.” His other hand cradled her face. Petyr was trying to tether her into reality, and away from the fears that threatened to swallow her whole. Sansa felt the wet slide of blood on his thumb caressing her skin, fighting against the coil of fear in her head and heart. Sansa felt the softest press of his lips to hers. “Sweetling, it’s done.” Another press. So gentle and comforting. The shaking slowed, the coil around her heart lightened a fraction.

            “But I– But I messed up. Messed it all up. I couldn’t do it right. I…”

            “Sansa, look at me.”

            She tried. Blinking away the endless run of tears that clouded her vision, it seemed an eternity before the blur sharpened into the softer lines and mossy eyes of Petyr. And for that, she was glad. That before her wasn’t the cold, calculating mask that he wore for everyone else. That for her – and for her only – Petyr set the mask aside. And for her only, the gentle smile reached from lips to eyes.

            “It’s okay, sweetling. You didn’t _mess it all up_. We knew Joffrey was unpredictable, which is putting it lightly. It isn’t your fault our plans didn’t account for this. It isn’t your fault.”

            Tears formed at the corners of her eyes again, but before they fell, Petyr kissed them away. Sansa couldn’t help the shaking that flowed through her again. Her entire self was wracked with emotion, herself in the center of a raging storm. This time, however, the shaking wasn’t from the fear or the terror. It was _relief_. It was the comfort that she wasn’t alone.

            Sansa pressed her lips to Petyr’s – a hard, insistent press, far harder than the gentle pecks he gave her moments before. These kisses now weren’t for comfort. She wanted to shove the monster of fear out of her. She wanted to forget the monster, and the mess, and the frightened child. She wanted Petyr to see her and accept her for who she was. Wanted Petyr to know not just the extent of the raging storm inside of her, but how he was always the one to cast her free of the storm.

            Sansa fell into Petyr, arms wrapped tightly about him and staining the too-large jacket with blood. And he pressed himself against her, too. As if they were afraid the other was an illusion, imagined only in their minds. As if they were afraid that somehow, this might be their last embrace.

            Their mouths opened in a fervid taste of the other. Their hands lost themselves in hair and skin and beneath clothes. There was a balance there, too. In how each of them claimed the other with tongue and fingers. Sansa smelt blood and tasted mint and felt _alive_.

            She wasn’t sure where it came from, the _fervor_ of their kisses, or how tightly they wrapped themselves in the other. Fear? Comfort? The body lying just out of sight? Perhaps a combination of all three, heightening the fire burning through the ice in her veins.

            Sansa wanted to feel that fire, wanted it to consume them until they were nothing but ashes. She didn’t want it to stop: the way Petyr tasted, the way her body reacted under his claiming hands and teeth and tongue.

            But it had to. She had been pressed against a wall, her dress half-off when Petyr’s roaming fingers stopped. A sliver of the mask returned, reminding Sansa that the extra _evidence_ of their passion wouldn’t do well to be found. And then the mask was gone when Petyr cleaned his fingers of her lust, savoring her taste.

            Sansa helped him to clean and complete the bloody scene. There wasn’t much left to be done: plant evidence, clean every surface she touched of her prints. Through it all, that raging fire still burned in her veins– and Sansa knew it was must have been just as amusing for Petyr as it was maddening for her.

            Before they left, they discarded their disheveled and red-stained clothes in the fireplace, and watched them burn to ashes. Then, when they made it back to Petyr’s apartment, there was time enough in the night for them not to stop. For that wicked mix of terror and death and lust running through their veins to build into a sinful explosion of bliss Sansa never could have imagined. And Petyr obliged her again. And again.

            When the sun rose in the morning, news of a tragic robbery-gone-wrong rang through every television and radio broadcast in the city. No one truly cared for the boy with a knife sticking out of his chest, no one save his immediate family. No one truly wanted to look for the killer, except perhaps to congratulate them on a job well done.

            When the sun rose in the morning, Sansa and Petyr were long gone from King’s Landing. No one would be looking for them, he assured her. No one would be suspecting them, not with evidence planted in the apartment of Joffrey and the boy’s uncle.

            Perhaps Sansa was right after all. It _did_ all start with a murder. But it hadn’t ended there – the murder was just the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> [I love me some good ol' fashioned angst directly followed by some good ol' fashioned kissing. Bit of a teaser though, but that's who I am :P  
> I hope you liked it, and let me know what you think!! :D ]
> 
> [[For reference, the title comes from a throwaway line in the game Borderlands The Pre-Sequel lol]]


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